God, you fool.

In a rambling old house in Gospel Oak, in London in January I lose my heart. What are the chances she'll ever love me? Christ, to be like this for ever, to live, to be together, to hold her like this in bed some night when she's afraid of the thunder, when I'm there to hold her, to be held by her.

She stirred against him, and he mistook it for something like the small movements of a child asleep, and smiled down at her through the slow current of perfume rising from her black, turmoiled hair; but she was awake and brought her head up, drawing away from him a little, looking at him, so that he had to hide his smile quickly, because it wasn't something he had meant her to see.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him. He took a deep breath. "I was thinking," he said slowly, conscious of her arms still round his waist (no; one hand went to her brow, smoothed her hair away from her eyes; there, though, it went back again, clasped lightly behind him!), "about... whether you could tell from the wine on the inside of a shoe what type it was. The wine, I mean; the vineyard and vintage... um... whether it was south slope or the soil had been especially acidic that year."

A broad smile, slackening her tensed-up, vulnerable face, filled the white space in the dark mass of hair. His heart seemed to leap inside him, at the sheer beauty of her now, and the realisation he had produced this change. He felt his mouth open involuntarily, and closed it again, speechless.

"Or you could have champagne-tasting competitions from ladies" slippers," she said, laughing. He grinned, nodded. She sighed, her expression changed again, and she took her arms away from him, bent over as though hugging herself round the middle. "I think I'd better go to the loo," she said, then looked at him. "Will you wait?"

"I'll wait," he said, too solemnly, he thought. He smiled, touched her hand again, "You sure you're okay?"

"Just nerves." She shook her head, looking down at his hand. Thanks for... well, thanks. I'll be back." She got up quickly, went to the door and out. He collapsed back on the bed, eyes wide and staring at the white ceiling.

All his life he had not believed anything could be like this. You stopped believing in Father Christmas, tooth fairies, paternal omniscience... and in the sort of over-the-top crazy heart-thudding happy-ever-after love they told you was the ideal. Life was sex, infidelity, divorces. Infatuation, yes, but love at first sight, smell, touch? For him? Where was that carefully nurtured fine cynicism now?

He lay on the bed like that, waiting for her. He got up after a while and paced round the high-ceilinged room, looking at the layered posters and the soft toys, the two old wardrobes, the small ring-tree on the window ledge, hung with little cheap, colourful rings. He touched the long, dark green curtains, looked out into the garden and over it at the house beyond, tall and dark. A dim sodium-yellow glow filled the sky; patchy snow blemished the garden. The door opened. He smiled and turned.

A tall, drunk-looking woman in a red jump-suit swayed in the doorway, holding on to the outside of the jamb. Her face was thin, hair yellow. "You all right, dear?" she asked Graham, looking round the room. Graham made a small smile.

"I'm fine, Mrs Hunter. Mrs ffitch is ah... in the loo."

"Oh," the woman said. He didn't think she remembered him; he had seen her, he recalled, at the end-of-term dance. "Right, then. Well... don't mess up the bed." She withdrew, closing the door. Graham was left frowning at the door, wondering exactly what she meant. It opened again and Mrs Hunter re-appeared "You haven't seen my husband, have you? I'm Mrs Hunter, Marty's wife."

He shook his head. He felt unfairly urbane; almost contemptuous of the drunk woman. "No, Mrs Hunter," he said, "not for a while."

"Hmm," she said, and was gone. He watched the door for a bit, but nothing more happened. The party sounded loud behind it. He thought he could smell dope; grass or resin fumes. He went back to looking out the window, sometimes watching the reflection of the room in it. He looked at his watch, wondering how long she'd been away. It seemed like ages. Should he go and check? Would she want him to? What if something had happened; she'd fainted?

He didn't even know where the toilet was up here. He'd been once to the one on the ground floor, that was all. Should he go looking for her? It might look like nosiness, he might open the wrong door, embarrass people. He paced the room, then lay down for a while, hands clasped behind his head. He got up and went back to the window, willing the door's reflection to move.

It moved; he turned, just in time to see it start to close as a male face disappeared after a brief inspection. "Oh, sorry," a voice said. A girl giggled outside, steps sounded. He faced the window once more.

Finally, a sick feeling in his belly, as though something there was twisted, pulsing pain, he left the room. He found the toilet a floor down. He thought: I'll try the handle; the door will be open and the room will be empty. She's gone. I mean nothing to her.

He tested the handle. The door was locked.

It'll be a man's voice, he told himself. It was a woman's.

"Won't be long; sorry."

"Sara?" he said, uncertain, his voice shaking. There was silence, and his eyes smarted. It isn't her. It wouldn't be her. It wouldn't be her at all.

"Graham? Look, I'm really sorry. I'll be out soon. God I'm sorry."

"No, no," he said, almost shouting; he had to lower his voice,

"That's okay. That's fine. I'll wait... in... the room, all right?"

"Yes. Yes please. Five minutes."

She was there! He went bounding up the stairs, three or four at a time, praying to himself the room hadn't been taken over by some amorous couple while he'd been away, cursing himself for doubting her. Now she'd think he didn't trust her.

The room was empty, as he'd left it. He sat down on the bed, his hands in his lap, his heart thumping in his chest. He stared at the bottom of the door. I go into ecstasies because a woman is in the loo, he thought. This is enough to make me feel like I own the world. Can I tell anybody about this? Can I tell Slater? Can I tell mum? Did she and dad ever feel like this?

She came back. She looked whiter than ever. Her breath was ragged and faint, pulsing. She lay down on the bed, not speaking to him. She made him feel frightened, but as she lay down, eyes closed, on her side and facing him, something else in her, some frail, scavenging eroticism made him shake with desire. Oh my God, I feel like a rapist. She's ill.

"Are you -" he choked on the dry words, began again. "Are you really poorly? Should we get an ambulance?"

" 'Poorly'," she said, and smiled, her eyes still closed. "That's a nice word." She opened her eyes, looking at him; she blinked in the light. "I'm fine, really. Really I am. Just nerves; I'm a weepy female and I should probably be on valium, but fuck it. I'm riding it out, you know? I've things to get over. Sorry to be a bother."

"It's no bother," he said, and was at last pleased with the way he had said something; warm, strong, not patronising, but caring. Did she hear it that way, though? She nodded at him, eyes closing. She sniffed at the top of her dress, over her breasts.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, eyes open again. "I stink of some horrible aftershave." Graham realised that indeed there was a strong smell of cologne from her. She smiled wanly at him and shrugged. "I threw up. This was all I could find to cover the smell. I've brushed my teeth too, but I still taste it... God, this is awful, Graham. I'm using you like a nursemaid. I didn't mean to."

"Don't... worry about it," he said weakly.

Her eyes closed again. "You wouldn't get the wrong idea if I asked you to put that light out, would you?" she asked. "My eyes hurt."